Lonely is the Night
by WinJennster
Summary: It's not him; no one ever comes close to him. But for one night, maybe, maybe Dean can pretend. The man's voice is wrong, when he says hello, sitting down on the stool next to Dean. It's not deep enough, it's not gravelly enough, but he's friendly enough, his smile is sincere, and his interest is more than genuine.


He doesn't do this often, and he always make sure Sam is occupied, because even though he knows Sam wouldn't have an issue, it's just not a conversation he's ready to have.

And it's not like they're talking all that much anyway.

He checks into a motel just outside of Kansas City, and fetches his garment bag from the Impala.

He bathes carefully, and makes sure he's perfectly clean shaven, hair impeccably styled, just a bit of cologne on his wrists and behind his ears.

He gets dressed thoughtfully; his expensive grey flannel slacks, his best slate blue dress shirt, the blue tie with the grey and navy stripes, a navy blue v-neck sweater, and his new black wool blazer. His dress boots are shined, and his black socks are good quality, no holes in the toe.

He chooses the place carefully. He doesn't want a club; he's looking for something a bit more sophisticated. Dean knows exactly what he wants out of this venture, and he knows what type of place he needs to find.

His phone offers up a place, inside city limits, on the waterfront in an old factory. He's pleased with the results. Most of the men inside look to be white collar guys, classy, just the type he's looking for tonight.

Dean settles at the bar on the far end, smiling at the bartender, and he orders a tumbler of decent whiskey. The first sip goes down like liquid fire, warming his throat and melting the last of his nerves.

He takes in the exposed brick and the open ceiling, halogen bulbs lighting interesting pieces of artwork along the walls. The bar is polished dark wood, the stools are brass with red leather seats. It's classy. And in his expensive outfit, he fits right in.

His first drink is replaced by a second, and the bartender tells him it's been purchased for him.

Perfect.

Dean looks up, eyes catching the smile of the man several stools down.

He's wearing a well-made black pinstripe suit, a silver-grey shirt, and a bright red tie. Dean can see an expensive gold watch peeking out from his jacket sleeve, and the latest and greatest smart phone lying on the bar. The other guy is attractive, with dark eyes and dark hair. There's stubble lining a square jaw, pink lips quirking into a sexy grin. It's not _him_; no one ever comes close to him. But for one night, maybe, _maybe_ Dean can pretend.

The man's voice is wrong, when he says hello, sitting down on the stool next to Dean. It's not deep enough, it's not gravelly enough, but he's friendly enough, his smile is sincere, and his interest is more than genuine.

Dean's not a generally arrogant person, but he knows he's attractive. He knows men, in particular, love his lips, thick and pink and plush, and that they love imagining his lips doing things to their bodies.

Jonathan, the guy tells him, is an investment banker with a large firm in the city. He's interested in Mozart, art deco architecture, and saving the Amazon. He's very interested in Dean's faux career as an FBI agent, but he's never heard of Led Zeppelin and doesn't know the difference between a 1967 Impala and a 2013 Impala.

Not that it matters. Dean only needs one night.

Jonathan clearly spends time at the gym, something Dean discovers when a muscular thigh rubs against his own, and he's a little taller than Dean, too. After three drinks, he invites Dean back to his place, and Dean readily agrees.

The loft is ultra-modern, and very clean. It reminds him of Dean Smith's place, actually, and he gets a weird rush of déjà vu. Then Jonathan is on him, slipping his tongue into his mouth, and Dean forgets what he was thinking about in the first place.

He undresses Dean slowly, making pleased sounds as each inch of freckled skin is revealed, hands smoothing over the satiny pink panties Dean chose for the night. He lays a row of kisses up Dean's spine, lips soft on his neck, while his hand drifts around to stroke him to hardness. He pulls Dean into his bedroom, pushing him down onto the bed.

Dean watches through hooded eyes as Jonathan strips away the suit, unembarrassedly undressing. He's toned and fit, muscles well formed, arms and legs and chest flexing with every movement. He kisses his way up Dean's body, from the tips of his toes to the base of his neck.

Thick fingers stretch him out, pretty words whispered in his ear as he tells Dean how beautiful he is, how fucking hot, how gorgeous he looks with his pretty lips wrapped around Jonathan's cock.

Jonathan fucks Dean hard, on his hands and knees, yanking roughly on his hair, spanking his ass, clawing at his back.

It's rough. It's hard and rough, and it's what he thought he wanted, but when it's over, and they've both come, Jonathan looks content, and Dean feels…_empty_.

The other man indicates that he should get dressed and leave.

Before his _wife_ gets home.

He does. Jonathan doesn't even offer to drive him back to the bar, so he hails a cab, shifting uncomfortably on the seat, sore and miserable. He feels so dirty.

Back in the motel, he scrubs himself clean in the shower, rubbing at his skin until it's red and raw. Dean sinks into the bottom of the tub, his knees pulled up to his chest, head bowed, hot water spraying over him. He sits there until the spray turns cold, then pulls himself out of the tub.

He doesn't cry. Not this time.

He dresses in sweats and a tee, and curls up on the single bed in the room. The mark on his arm burns and throbs and he lays awake in the dark, trying to push away the loneliness and the dissatisfaction that's become his life.

God, he misses Cas. He misses Cas so much he can't put it into words.

But he's poison. He's poison, and alone is what he should be.

It's nothing less than he deserves.


End file.
